


The Tournament

by fanfictiongreenirises



Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [20]
Category: DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily Dynamics (DCU), Bruises, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Good Bro Dick Grayson, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, some editing but we still typo like mne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24507499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictiongreenirises/pseuds/fanfictiongreenirises
Summary: "In the split second before Dick opened his mouth and answered Tim, a number of thoughts ran through his mind at full speed. He currently had one fact that stood out to him more than the rest: Damian had been looking forward to their sparring tournament for at least a month.Dick wouldn’t be the one to disappoint him."Dick tries to power through his injuries. It goes about as well as you'd expect.
Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622032
Comments: 36
Kudos: 412





	The Tournament

**Author's Note:**

> For the "Bruises" square on my Batman Bingo card!! For @we-born-to-be-real-not-perfect and anon on tumblr ^~^
> 
> Disclaimer: don't own DC.

THIS FANFICTION IS HOSTED ON **ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN** , WHERE YOU CAN READ IT FOR **FREE**. IF YOU’RE READING THIS ON A DIFFERENT WEBSITE, IT WAS POSTED THERE **WITHOUT** THE AUTHOR’S CONSENT.

Dick woke with a stifled groan. He lay completely still, doing his best to keep his body from moving, muscles forcibly relaxed. His body ached in places he only ever remembered existed when he’d been made into a punching bag. He couldn’t wait to see how his torso looked.

Dick glanced around for the noise that had woken him, because there was no reason for him to be awake now, at – he blinked to clear his vision as he looked at the clock – _nine_ in the morning.

There was _absolutely no reason_ for Dick to be awake after taking a couple of over the counter painkillers and crashing at five. He didn’t even want to be _thinking_ about waking up until at least noon.

The phone on the nightstand buzzed again, and Dick let out a controlled exhale as he reached up and grabbed it, yanking it off the charger. His arms were doing better than the rest of him, despite the undersides being a mottled blue.

Damian had been texting him for the last fifteen minutes, it seemed. Dick skimmed through the messages backwards, watching the tone turn from threatening to mild mannered.

The absolute first message – sent at eight fifteen – was what made him roll over to try and sit up painlessly. Because today was meant to be their annual sparring contest, and Dick had _completely_ forgotten.

His phone buzzed again. Tim, this time.

Dick swiped to answer. “Hey, Timbo,” he said. Sitting up was going to be like ripping off a band-aid. He put the phone on loudspeaker as he straightened up, taking in measured breaths.

“I’m about ten minutes away,” Tim said.

Dick blinked. “Ten minutes away?” he repeated.

“Yeah.” There was a loud honk on Tim’s end, and a string of low curses that Dick couldn’t quite decipher. “You still need a ride, right?”

Oh. Dick had mentioned that his bike was out of commission the other day, and Tim had offered to pick him up on his way to the Manor. Dick wished he had a calendar or something where he noted stuff like this down. He couldn’t believe he’d so thoroughly forgotten everything.

“Dick?” Tim was saying on the other end. “You still there?”

Dick cleared his throat. “Yeah, still here. Sorry, I just woke up. Head’s still trying to catch up.”

Tim snorted. “Was it Damian who woke you? He sent me like five different reminders. He’s _really_ looking forward to this.”

Dick grimaced slightly, frown deepening as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. There was no way he was going to be moving normally for another week. “It’s his first proper one,” he said absentmindedly. “Last year’s was…well. Y’know.”

Tim didn’t say anything to that, because he _did_ know. “Get breakfast to go,” he told Dick. “We’ll be late as it is, and I still gotta pick up Cass from the airport—”

In the split second before Dick opened his mouth and answered Tim, a number of thoughts ran through his mind at full speed. He currently had one fact that stood out to him more than the rest: Damian had been looking forward to their sparring tournament for at least a month. He hadn’t mentioned it until Dick had brought it up with Cass, but with how much the rest of them sledged each other, he’d picked up the trend with ease and thinly hidden enthusiasm.

Dick wouldn’t be the one to disappoint him. Postponing wasn’t an option – Alfred had spent the last couple of days planning snacks.

He also knew this: Cass would tackle anyone who greeted her at the airport with a running hug, and any chance Dick had of hiding his injuries would be obsolete.

“Actually, Tim, I might make my own way there,” Dick found himself saying. “Long patrol last night. I need a couple minutes to feel human again.”

After convincing Tim he’d be there on time – “the brat’ll annhilate me if I show up before you” – Dick made his way to the kitchen and dug around in his medicine cabinet to find that cream Alfred had shoved at him the last time he’d had significant bruising.

It wouldn’t work as fast as he needed it to, but it was something.

A warm shower and some actual food had Dick feeling more alive, more willing to go to the Manor and battle all his siblings.

He called Jason. “Jay,” he said in a wheedling tone. “Tell me you aren’t at the Manor yet.”

“I _am_ at the Manor,” Jason told him. “In fact, I was here all of last night setting up the fucking arena.”

Dick sighed. “Never mind. I’ll be there in a bit.”

Jason snorted. “You haven’t left your apartment yet?”

“Tell Damian I got held up in traffic?”

* * *

They’d spent much too long working out a system of who went up against who, to make it as fair as they could. It was different with five people – last year had been… well, this year had more participants than any other.

In the end (partly to prevent hurt feelings and intimidation methods being used), it was decided that they would draw names on the day to decide the first rounds. There would be two qualifying matches, and then the fifth person would compete against the winner of the one of those (another draw from the hat), the victor of the match rising to the finals.

They were all much too intimately familiar with each other’s fighting for there to be any real surprises in the matches. The match system was based on points to account for it.

None of them expected to be able to beat Cass, but it was the creativity in how they lost that won points. Tim threw a handful of flour in her face (and mouth) and somehow managed to pin her down for five seconds, giving him the highest ‘losing’ point they could have.

Dick was surprised his façade had lasted so long, but to be fair, he was riding a nice high on painkillers. He just hoped they’d hold out until the end of his matches, and then he’d be able to crash on the couch and not move for a day.

Dick had had one other match before this, with Tim. He’d almost been in a draw – when the match went over fifteen minutes – but then one of his limbs had apparently bent a bit _too_ far in a certain direction than it was supposed to humanly go (even for him) without hurting, and Tim had backed off. Dick had played it off like it was intentional, but they both knew it wasn’t his style.

“Dick-breath, get in here,” Jason called, flexing his neck as he redid one of the wraps around his hand. “‘less you wanna forfeit now?”

Dick snorted. “In your dreams, Little Wing.” He could feel his bruises again, which was terrible timing, considering the next dose was in another hour at the earliest and he’d already taken over the recommended amount.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “ _That’s_ your trash talk?”

Dick got into his starting position, resisting the urge to shrug. He gave Jason his perfected _Robin_ smile instead. “No need to trash talk someone who’s about to be horse fodder.”

“That’s more like it.”

Jason struck before he’d finished speaking, but Dick was ready for him. He dodged, sucking in a breath as his muscles pulled and pushed in all the worst places, sweeping a leg to the back of Jason’s knees.

Jason landed lithely, wrapping his legs around Dick’s shins. Dick leapt up, intending to somersault over Jason, but his reflexes were a second off, and Jason yanked him back to the ground. By the look on his face, Jason was just as startled at the move having the intended effect as Dick was.

“Freebie,” Dick said with a grin even as he jumped up.

Jason was up just as soon as he was, and the next few seconds were filled with a series of rapid hand-to-hand manoeuvres that only instinct built over a lifetime of practise allowed for Dick to block and counter.

Dick was tiring much faster than he liked; too much of his energy was going into behaving normally. If this were the streets, he wouldn’t be putting as many flourishes into his fighting as he was.

“Teen Wolf called. They want their unnecessary flips back,” Jason said as Dick leapt over him for the fifth time.

“Teen Wolf _stole_ that from _me_. If anything, _I_ should be calling _them_.”

“Dude, that’s nothing to brag about—”

“Says you, dildo head—”

Jason aimed a kick right at Dick’s midsection. It wasn’t particularly hard, just enough pressure to knock the wind right out of him, but Dick went down like a sack of bricks and couldn’t get his breath back.

He fought the pain coming at him in waves, trying to deepen his inhales. Jason had darted over to him the second he’d realised Dick wasn’t faking it, hands roaming all over Dick’s torso.

Dick twisted away, yet another mistake as his muscles protested loudly. He sucked in a breath. “Gimme a minute,” he got out. “I’m good—”

“You aren’t _good_ ,” Jason argued furiously. “You haven’t been moving right all fucking day; you think we wouldn’t notice?”

The rest of them had jumped off the seats around the side of the arena when Jason had run over to Dick, and now they stood around him in a circle. Damian and Cass stood behind Jason to the side, Tim crouching next to him as he prodded at Dick.

Dick swatted his hand away, forcing himself to stand. “I’m just a little sore from last night,” he said with an easy smile. “Didn’t stretch as much as I—" He let out a high-pitched yelp as the front of his T-shirt was sliced in half with a sword. “I thought we said the weapons had to be blunt!”

“Your clothing is threadbare, Grayson,” Damian told him with a glower. “Cassandra's nails could rip them.”

“That’s not saying much – Cass’ nails could rip through fucking anything,” Jason muttered, even as he whistled at the state of Dick’s torso. “You’re a goddamn idiot, you know that?”

Cass was poking at him in various places. Dick held his breath as she methodically worked over him. “We could’ve postponed.” Despite the reprimand in her words, Cass’ eyes were knowing; Tim hadn’t been the only one to receive Damian’s threats.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Dick tried to say. He received four incredulous looks in return.

Damian had his arms crossed (adorably, Dick’s mind added), and his forehead was set in a deep frown. “There’s no point in competing when you aren’t at full capacity,” he said.

Dick, oddly hurt despite his usual Damian translator working away at the statement, opened his mouth to reply, when Tim beat him to it. “What he means to say is, it’s one thing to power through when it’s a life or death thing, y’know? But it’s completely beside the point when we’re having a _tournament_ for _fun_.”

Dick sighed. “I didn’t want you all to have to reschedule it. It was hard enough to find a time everyone’s free, and then Alfred made so _mmph_ —”

Cass had placed a hand over his mouth. Giving him a stern look, she said, “We’re rescheduling for next fortnight. Everyone will be free. Now we’re going to pig out in front of the TV and eat all of Alfred’s food so it doesn’t go to waste.” She glanced at the others. “Our scores from today will count, except Dick’s.”

The others nodded; no one had any desire to go against Cass when she took charge.

Jason nudged Dick’s shoulder with a knee. “I’ll carry the food in,” he said. “Leave the rest of the stuff here.”

Tim snorted. “You only want food duty so you can pilfer cookies and still claim your share.”

Jason shrugged. “And can you prove that theory?”

Dick got to his feet slowly, breathing as evenly as he could. Despite everyone’s words, the guilt was still building up. He should’ve hidden it better, should’ve modified his fighting technique to account for any hits to his middle.

Damian grabbed him by the arm, yanking him forward before he could open his mouth and suggest sitting on the sidelines and watching the rest of them compete.

“Come, Grayson,” he said, tugging Dick along as he strutted into the Manor. “We must get the best seats and blankets.”

“Dami…” Dick trailed off at the glower he received.

“ _You_ were the one who told me to never hide injuries,” Damian snapped. “And yet ever since you went back to fighting alone, you’ve done nothing _but_.”

“You were so excited,” Dick murmured, settling into the cushions of the couch. Damian dropped a stack of blankets onto his lap, as well as a stray hoodie that had been draped over a chair. Dick had no idea whose it was. It might’ve at one point been his. “It’s been so long since we’ve had time to do anything together, with all of us.” After putting on the hoodie, he added, “You’re right, and I _am_ sorry, about not telling you guys.”

Damian made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat, eerily reminiscent of Bruce. He didn’t say anything more, instead shuffling back into the pillows and tugging Alfred the Cat, who’d been dozing on an armrest, into the junction between him and Dick.

Not even a second later, another weight dropped down on Dick’s other side. Dick wordlessly passed Cass’ favourite blanket to her – soft and fluffy in a light shade of eggplant. Jason walked into the room backwards, all the snacks that Alfred had laid out outside carried between him and Tim using the table-cloth.

“Someone find a place for us to put this,” Jason called. “Jug’s not gonna last much longer.”

Dick’s eyes widened; right before his eyes, the full pitcher of lemonade teetered where Jason was holding it by his thumb, some of its contents dripping down the side.

Cass, before any of them had time to think, leapt forward and snagged it from Jason, rescuing the jug and saving the rug that they were on.

“Here,” Dick said, pushing forward a nearby coffee table. “Anything that doesn’t fit here—”

“Goes here,” Damian interrupted, carrying over a side table from the other end of the room and dropping it before them.

Tim had disappeared at some point after depositing the food and leaving the rest of them to figure out how to fit everything onto the two tables. He returned from the door leading into the kitchen, carrying an ice pack and tub of the same cream that Dick had applied that morning.

“Y’know,” he said as he handed them to Dick, “there are a _lot_ of us now. Even if you don’t need the help, sometimes it’s nice to just have someone patrolling with you.”

There was a rush of warmth flooding through Dick at Tim’s words. To mask how choked his throat became for a moment, he wrapped an arm around Tim’s neck and tugged him in for a sloppy kiss to the cheek. Tim yelped in disgust and shoved at his arm, but not as hard as he normally would.

“I know,” he said. “Honestly, it wasn’t even supposed to be a hard night.”

Tim gave him an assessing look before vaulting over the back of the couch, right as Jason emerged from presumably the bathroom.

There was a scuffle for everyone to position themselves before the food in a way that suited them – Jason refused to be near the black liquorice; Damian moved the caramel popcorn in front of him and glowered at anyone who tried to reposition it – before they settled down enough to begin a movie.

“I vote we watch something with fight scenes,” Jason announced. “Since we can’t do them ourselves.”

Tim shot him a look. “You _hate_ most of those movies,” he said. “The last time we watched action movies you spent the entire thing yelling at the screen.”

Jason shrugged. “It’s not my fault they’re shit.”

Cass was looking at them with amused eyes. “Our to-watch list is getting long again,” she suggested.

Damian nodded far more sombrely than someone discussing movies had any right to. “I agree with Cain. It’s far more efficient to go through the list than to find new movies.”

Dick snorted. “Half the time we add things to that when we’re bored and trailer surfing.”

Tim was the only one who nodded with his words instead of giving him a disgusted look.

“Since I’m a normal fucking human who doesn’t do that,” Jason said after a brief pause, “and happen to use Cass’ account, I vote we go through the list. To find _quality_ shit movies.”

“Fine,” Tim said. “But we aren’t watching sad rom coms or disaster movies again.”

Cass hummed, reaching around Dick for where the remote rested on the arm of the couch.

“Hey,” Dick said suddenly. “It’s not a movie, but what about Riverdale? I watched the first episode with Babs and it was pretty cool—”

“Dick’s not allowed to have a say in what we watch anymore.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading =) My card's in the series description if you want to request a square. My finals are in like two~ weeks so I'll either be pumping out fics madly or not being able to write at all until they're over lol
> 
> Stay safe everyone <3
> 
> [Tumblr]()


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